


"Too real to feel"

by winethroughwater



Series: Spellcest Porn Challenge [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Lusty Month of May, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, Strap-Ons, Zelda can't have all the fun, don't even look for a plot, haven't we all wanted to see this, pwp again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: The first time and the latest time Hilda (yes, Hilda!) straps for Zelda.  (I think the prompt was obvious.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UbiquitousMixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/gifts).



It’s too big. It will never fit.

 

Zelda swears it will.

 

Zelda is certainly never putting this thing inside _her_.

 

When her sister gives one last tug on the strap over her hip and steps away to admire her work, she looks down and just can’t help it.

 

It looks so silly.

 

A giggle catches in her throat.

 

Zelda raises a warning eyebrow.

 

She drops her gown to cover it up, but the _thing_ is even more ridiculous now, tenting out the fabric.

 

She laughs.

 

And Zelda shoves her.

 

Fortunately her bed is right behind her to break her fall.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s still far too tingly from before to want Zelda’s fingers on her again.

 

Much less inside her.

 

But inside her one of them sweeps.

 

But it is that pleasant sort of too-much that her sister is so good at finding.

 

The kind that makes her eyes flutter shut.

 

“Don’t close your eyes.”

 

Her huff earns her a pinch to her thigh.

 

* * *

 

She watches Zelda’s fingers move up and down it.

 

Spreading _her_ around it.

 

“Don’t make that face.”

 

Zelda repeats the process.

 

“Here.”

 

Zelda has her hand, curling their fingers around it, before she can protest.

 

Up and down and around.

 

There’s heat instead of a giggle low in her belly.

 

It _is_ smoother now.

 

But still not any smaller.

 

* * *

 

Zelda’s arrogance often gets her into trouble. Then _she_ bears the brunt of her sister’s embarrassment and anger.

 

She’s gotten better at anticipating these situations, at diffusing them before they, well, Zelda, explodes.

 

“I still don’t think—”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“What if it gets stuck?”

 

Zelda is laughing at her as she throws herself down beside her, but not in an entirely mean-spirited way. More the way she laughs when Vinegar Tom chases his tail.

 

“That doesn’t happen, Hildie. And I assure you, this is perfectly average size for a cock.”

 

They both stare down at it.

 

She remains unconvinced.

 

“It isn’t going to hurt me. _You_ aren’t going to hurt me.”

 

Zelda leans in close, close enough that she feels the words against her lips: “Quite the opposite.”

 

Zelda has her hand again. Once she’s guided it under her gown, Hilda knows exactly what to do.

 

“Because this is what you do to me.”

 

It’s like dipping her finger into fresh honey, touching Zelda there.

 

* * *

 

Zelda sits back up. She pulls her gown up over her head and tosses it away.

 

Hilda knows her shock shows on her face but she keeps quiet.

 

Zelda is breaking one of their cardinal rules. Even though the family is out for the day, they _always_ keep their gowns on. Just in case. Ready to whip back into place.

 

Though how she would ever explain this thing strapped to her, she doesn’t know, so she supposes Zelda’s nakedness is the least of her concern.

 

* * *

 

 

No, _concern_ is not the word she would use at all, as she takes her sister in.

 

_Lithe_. It’s a lovely word. A Zelda word. Thin with buds of curves that she suspects will remain so. Like a rose clipped at just the right moment.

 

Zelda smirks at being so admired. Hilda blushes instead.

 

Zelda’s fingers tug at her gown, their intention clear.

 

She might as well.

 

* * *

 

She has _bloomed_. So Mother said and so all the eyes on her at school would suggest.

 

Zelda’s random “fat” taunts in front of her friends at the Academy don’t sting as much as they should.

 

She knows how Zelda looks at her in moments alone.

 

How she’s looking at her now.

 

* * *

 

Zelda has _it_ in hand, is straddling her hips, straddling it.

 

She feels the straps pinch when Zelda bends it a bit.

 

* * *

 

She was right.

 

It is not going to fit, judging by Zelda’s face and how slowly she is lowering herself down it.

 

But then Zelda moans and her body seems to swallow it whole.

 

She’s reminded of this year’s play.

 

She might be one of two people (she hopes Faustus Blackwood chokes on an onion) who knew immediately that Zelda’s _performance_ as Lilith was very real.

 

Particularly in one scene. Her sister, the method actor.

 

Except Zelda isn’t play acting now.

 

“Satan, Zelds.”

 

“Told you.”

 

* * *

 

She’s never had Zelda in this way before, not with both her hands free to explore.

 

Generally, one of them is very busy.

 

* * *

 

Zelda bears down and circles her hips when she runs her thumb nail over a nipple. Does it again with a gasp when she pinches until it’s gone quite red.

 

* * *

 

Zelda likes it when she leaves marks, almost as much as Zelda likes to leave marks herself.

 

She scratches hard enough down Zelda’s back to make her sister hiss and rock forward hard enough to make her bite her own tongue.

 

* * *

 

Zelda’s head falls forward and she’s momentarily lost behind a curtain of hair when her fingers dig into her hips.

 

She’s amazed to feel Zelda move in time with the slightest guidance from her grasp.

 

Zelda sweeps her hair back.

 

The look on her face has one hand abandon her sister’s hip.

 

* * *

 

 

She knows exactly how hard to press to roll that bundle of nerves beneath her thumb.

 

How hard to move her hips off the mattress and towards Zelda requires a bit of a learning curve.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“But you’ve seen—”

 

“You aren’t putting that in me.”

 

They’ve been having this argument all evening.

 

Zelda even whispered at her over dinner until Mother asked what was going on.

 

Zelda had said she thought it was high time that Hilda _take_ Advanced Conjuring. _Like every other witch her age had._

 

Hilda had nearly choked on her vegetable pie.

 

Here in the dark of their room she could have at least a little revenge.

 

“But when you do decide to _finally_ ,” Zelda whines, “it will be with _me_ , won’t it, sister?”

 

She doesn’t answer, just grins into Zelda’s pillow.

 

“ _Hilda_?”

 

“Who else would it be, silly?”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm. So it has been a hot minute. This is not what I started writing in May but it's what I finished in July.

Strangely, it starts with a puzzle pulled down from the top of a hall closet and two sisters who had done nothing but mope and bicker for the better part of a week.

 

Dorcas and Agatha had gotten on the very last nerve Zelda had to spare.

 

Lucky for them, it ends with her white knuckling her headboard as Hilda positively wrecks her.

 

* * *

 

“Here we are now.”

 

They look at Hilda as if her sister has grown a second, even more cheerful head when she settles herself in the floor and deposits the worn box onto the coffee table.

 

They are even more shocked when Zelda toes off her heels and lowers herself to her knees next to her sister. 

 

She slides the lid off the box and dumps the pieces out into one large pile, careful not to let any tumble off the table.

 

She smiles at Hilda as she remembers how long it had taken them to finish this one--a seascape of a thousand pieces--the first time.

 

“We do the edges,” Zelda explains.  “You can start work on the ocean.”

 

Her “you” is obviously collective and despite their open hostility towards one another this week, they are not going to disobey their new High Priestess, headmistress, _and_ matriarch of the household to which they now--at least temporarily--belong.

 

They finger the pieces slowly, turn a few right-side up.

 

Their general lack of enthusiasm does not go unnoticed.

 

“All the blue pieces, dearies,” Hilda instructs.

 

“They’re all blue pieces.” Dorcas looks to Agatha for confirmation.  The brunette nods in agreement.  

 

“True but the sea is a deeper azure than the sky.”  Hilda squints and points to the picture on the box. 

 

Zelda’s surprised she hasn’t pulled out the glasses she’s taken to wearing more and more often.  Probably forgotten where she put them again.

 

“Clearly the sun has cast the water a soft lapis on the left,” Zelda adds, though the distinction is not as clear as she remembers it being. 

 

There’s still enough room between the younger sisters that there is no danger of their bumping elbows, but the girls share a conspiratory glance.

 

They aren’t truly mad at each other, Zelda knows.  Prudence is the source of discord, the sister who has betrayed them.  And left them.  In her absence, they have only the other to lash out at.

 

Zelda has several choice words she plans to share with Prudence herself when she returns from her mission with Ambrose.

 

If she returns. 

 

If either of them returns.

 

Hilda’s shoulder bumps into hers.

 

_They_ share a loaded smile.

 

“Can you reach that corner piece, Zelds, over by Agatha’s hand?”

 

* * *

 

“ _Are you blind?_ That goes in my pile.”

 

“It does _not_.”

 

* * *

 

“If you turn that bunch there around--”

 

“They’ll connect to the sky right there where that seagull’s wing is.”

 

* * *

 

“That was a very good idea.”

 

Two thirds of the Weird Sisters are about one third of the way done with the puzzle and showed no signs of stopping when she and Hilda made their excuses. 

 

“Thank you.” Hilda smiles over her cup, teases, “One might think I’ve had experience with difficult sisters.”

 

Zelda considers her, swallows the last of her whiskey, and sits the glass down on the counter behind her.

 

“You’re not going to stay up half the night baking again, are you?”

 

Their household has swollen and _does_ require more cooking, but Zelda is well aware that only _part_ of Hilda’s time is spent in the kitchen.  She’s really going room to room to check on their new charges. 

 

Organizing and caring and fussing over each one of them--her sister has been in her element.  A certain tired confidence has settled over Hilda as this strength has risen to the surface.

 

“ _No_.”

 

Zelda would have caught the color rising in her sister’s cheeks, if she hadn’t been watching Hilda’s index finger slowly trace the rim of her cup.

 

“Actually, I have another idea--one that I hope you’ll be _open_ to.”

 

Her body’s response to Hilda’s invariably clumsy innuendo is Pavlovian, she will admit. 

 

Three steps and she is right next to Hilda’s chair, pulse speeding up and throbbing somewhere well south of her chest.

 

A slight bend at the waist and they are almost nose to nose.

 

Hilda’s eyes widen and the throbbing intensifies.

 

“Does it involve your tits and my teeth by any chance?”

 

Hilda squirms in her chair but doesn’t look away.

 

“I suppose, at some point, it very well may.”

 

* * *

 

They haven’t slept more than an arms-length apart since her return to their house.

 

They haven’t slept much. Full stop.

 

There’s so much to plan, to talk through, decisions to be made that are better not discussed in front of the tattered remains of their coven—the conversations continue even when they have managed to fall into one of their beds.

 

She swears Hilda fell asleep mid-sentence on Wednesday and woke Thursday only to finish it.

 

Or maybe she fell asleep and Hilda was repeating herself for _her_ benefit.

 

Either way Melvin does not have any next-of-kin to contact.

 

Nightmares and tears and sheer frustration at the close quarters result in constant interruptions throughout the night.

 

They _have_ suffered a terrible trauma.

 

They _all_ have.

 

But if this continues on into next week, she will order Hilda to spike the mountain of morning pancakes with the strongest contentment potion she can manage.

 

* * *

 

There’s certainly been no time for what they are currently heading towards--if Hilda can ever manage to get their door open.

 

Zelda isn’t helping, quite the opposite. 

 

She doesn’t care--not when her palms are cupping the familiar curves of Hilda’s ass through her dress, not when her tongue darts out to taste the back of Hilda’s earlobe and Hilda moans.

 

Not a squeak from fingers scalded on a pot handle or a groan at a stitch in her back from fetching quilts and clothes from the attic--a real moan.

 

But it pales in comparison to the sound Hilda makes when Zelda’s hand slides over her hip and gropes against the front of her dress until she’s wedged her fingers over her sister’s sex.

 

She imagines how good it will feel without the layers of fabric between them, flexes her fingers.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Hilda’s fingers turn the knob.

 

* * *

 

Hilda hasn’t giggled, so Zelda hasn’t made any crass remarks.

 

It’s a first.

 

For so many reasons.

 

She typically has to all but bribe Hilda to do this, has to whine and pout and carry on in what she can only assume is a most becoming fashion.

 

But here is her sister, all gold and shadows in the dim light of their room.

 

Perched on her knees like an over-excited child, she watches from her bed--Hilda’s fingers steady on the last buckle, pulling the aged leather strap until it bites into the flesh of her hip.

 

Zelda’s inner thigh twitches sharply.

 

Only the direction of Hilda’s gaze, the way the pink tip of her sister’s tongue peeks out to taste her lower lip, make her realize that her own hand has stolen between her legs. That her fingers are distinctly wet.  That her hips are moving, being drawn in an orbit towards Hilda.

 

“I--” Hilda runs her thumbs beneath the straps absently, settles the harness in place.  “I don’t think I’ve told you how happy I am that you’re home.”

 

Hilda looks like she has more to say, more that would surely slow the course they have set, so Zelda forces a smirk and purrs, “I was bold enough to assume.”

 

She’s bold enough _now_ to reach out and wrap her fingers around the leather cock and tug Hilda to her.

 

* * *

 

It’s a clumsy kiss, a glut of tongues and saliva. 

 

Hilda’s thumb teases into her mouth after, tests the sharpness of Zelda’s teeth on its pad.

 

Hilda’s hips are moving now.

 

Zelda can see the flex of Hilda’s toes as she rocks herself back and forth into her hand.

 

“ _Zelds_.” 

 

Hilda’s chest rises; her fingers thread through Zelda’s hair, nudge her head down.

 

Zelda’s free hand lands solid against the small of Hilda’s back.

 

Her fingers splay, anchor herself. 

 

* * *

 

This is wet and messy like the kiss.

 

But she will have her fill and more.

 

Her cheek nuzzles against a curve of flesh before it turns to sternum then curves again.

 

Her tongue worries an already bruised nipple, swirls around it, teasing and light, then lathes flat across it. 

 

She sucks the bud between her lips, scrapes her teeth over it, bites and tugs until she feels the pressure of a kiss to the top of her head, hears a murmur that sounds like “I need you.”

 

* * *

 

“Fuck me.”

 

“Hands on the headboard please.”

 

* * *

 

Zelda expects a rain of gentle kisses down her back, a fluttering of knuckles then fingertips over her slit.

 

Hilda is always so maddeningly careful with her.

 

She expected this first time after her return to be fraught with Hilda’s tenderness; she expected to be treated like a wounded dove, to be cooed at and cried over.

 

She isn’t sure she could have stood it.

 

What she gets instead is Hilda’s voice behind her, as raw as she’s ever heard it, asking, “May I, sister?”

 

Her “please” is lost in a gasp when fingers stretch and open her, lost in the delicious, familiar burn as the head of the dildo stretches her further still.

 

Deep and full and then gone completely.

 

Hilda’s fingers pinch at her hips.

 

The next time Hilda hits something deeper still and she cries out.  Her fingers might splinter the wood she’s gripping. 

 

She feels the exhale of Hilda’s breath on her shoulder, the fluttering of lips.

 

“Should I stop to put up a silencing spell?”

 

“Let them hear.”  Her mouth has gone dry around the words.

 

Hilda laughs; it’s just a shallow chuckle but it’s enough that the cock shifts inside her, enough to have her throw her head back against her sister’s shoulder before she finishes:  “Might do wonders for their dispositions if they followed suit.”

 

* * *

 

Lurid--the percussion of Hilda’s soft belly against her ass, the thirsty sound her cunt makes as Hilda fucks her.

 

There’s nothing soft about what Hilda is driving into her or the way she does it.

 

Zelda’s back will be sore tomorrow, arched so tightly for so long, but the angle now is near sacred.

 

As holy as the fingers that wade into the wet mess between her thighs and roll and roll.

 

Tendons, from her feet to her neck, tense in turn. 

 

Pleasure blooms from her center until her entire body stills then quakes then stills again.

 

* * *

 

Here is her sweet Hilda in her arms when she turns, her Hilda babbling devotions and apologies and promises.

 

Zelda ignores her, licks clean a salty trail winding its way down Hilda’s left cheek, then pushes her down against the sheets.

 

* * *

 

She breathes through a hitch in her chest, a sentimental pang she would absolutely deny.

 

Beneath a flavor uniquely hers, Zelda swears she can still taste the blood from Hilda’s maidenhead. 

 

Some primal part of her sings as she licks from the cock’s rounded head to Hilda’s navel.

 

She spares a kiss to a neighboring freckle.

 

She is not the sentimental sort--and while it may have taken the better part of a year to convince her--Hilda did eventually let her fuck her with this very cock, had begged for it, in the end.

 

* * *

 

She can squeeze two fingers beneath the harness. 

 

Hilda is swollen and soaked.

 

The straps are still pulled tight.

 

She should loosen them, should free Hilda completely and kiss the lengths of red stripes they have left behind.

 

But Hilda’s lips have parted over white teeth and it would be greedy to fuck her mouth and leave her little sister wanting like this.

 

* * *

 

The angle is awkward.

 

Sweat-damp hair sticks to Hilda’s face just the same as her head thrashes from side to side.

 

* * *

 

Zelda works until her wrist has gone numb and Hilda pushes her away.

 

Hilda says, “Enough,” and rolls off the bed.

 

Her landing is unsteady at best.

 

* * *

 

She comes back dressed in one of her cotton night gowns, carrying one of Zelda’s own silk draped over her arm.

 

Zelda raises an eyebrow.

 

“Better put this on.” Hilda nods her head in the direction of their door and all the responsibilities that lay just outside of it. “Haven’t made it straight through a night yet.”

 

Zelda can’t argue with her logic, but she pities the poor soul that interrupts them tonight.

 

She is sore and sleepy but far from finished.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the puzzle is gone from the coffee table.

 

Hilda shakes her head and Zelda’s eyes narrow at the pair curled like sleepy kittens against each other on their sofa.

 

“We put it together,” Agatha says.

 

“And then we took it apart to put it away,” Dorcas finishes.

 

“You’ve told us to be tidier,” they chorus.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a snippet of a lyric from Patti Smith's "Because the Night." Second chapter will be set post-Part 2.


End file.
